


Leaving Me

by ACatWhoWrites



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:48:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACatWhoWrites/pseuds/ACatWhoWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dying, Francis experiences his past as if a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was another posted a prompt on what_the_fruk for the lovefest that essentially asked for a FrUK version of "Shake Me Down" by Cage the Elephant.
> 
> Don't take everything here as literal; I think that when people die, if their life flashes before their eyes, it is not in order or very distinct. If you think about it, every part here could take place in mere minutes.

Francis is allowed a final meeting in the courtyard before the straw, stake, and young woman tied to it would all be set aflame. He brushes her cheek, although she sheds no tears until she meets his gaze. “Ne pleure pas pour moi, Francis. Je ne l'ai fait rien que pour vous.” She presses her cheek to his palm, bites her trembling lips.

 _God, how could you be so cruel to one so young?_  Francis holds her wet face and kisses her forehead like when she was a small child, free to run around in the torched fields and chase butterflies and birds. Like when she was sweet and innocent and untouched by an unjust war. 

“Ma petite Jean. . . Dieu est avec tu.” Their foreheads touch, damp eyelashes fluttering against one another to control the tears. “Je t'aime. . ” He steps back, kissing her cheek one last time. 

A man in shining silver stands beside the stake, at the edge of the heaps of straw and sticks. The torch in his hand warps the air and reaches eagerly for his face. Green eyes, dark as the depths of the forests, glare with a triumphant smirk, and his hand releases the torch. Flames jump fast and encircle Jean’s terrified feet. The growing heat draws out beads of sweat that run down her face and arms, soaking her simple tunic.

She starts to scream. . .

Everyone is screaming. Men running back and forth on a battlefield piled with bodies and fallen trees. Flashes of red and brown scurry around Francis, huddled inside the rotten hollow of a tree. His leg bleeds were a bullet embedded itself, bleeds through the cloth he tore off a Redcoat’s shirt and soaks his pants more every time he moves.

 _How did I get involved in yet another war? Alfred. . . can you not just be grateful for what you have? Too much struggling will only bring his hands around you more tightly. . .‽_  A shot breaks apart the bark above his head; Francis ducks into a crouch with a hiss and swallow of pain. A Redcoat, brilliantly visible among the bright brown and green of the woods, stalks over fallen trees, hunting for rebellious Americans or sympathetic Frenchmen such as Francis.

A deep breath, two, rifle loaded and ready, Francis pivots from cover, aims, and fires. The Redcoat falls with a flash of medals. Medals mean high positions and potential profit; Francis jogs, hobbles, to the dead soldier and bends over him to take his medals and guns.

Sightless green eyes stare into the sunlight. . .

Sunlight pours through the blinds, sending slats of light that cut through the comfortable evening shadow and alight on Francis’ face. Screwing up his eyes and nose do nothing to push the wakefulness away, so he rolls over to the warm body at his back.

Hair mused and sticking up even more than when awake, he looks completely at peace. The usual crease that appears when the dark brows dip towards his nose are smooth, although there was a slight frown at the corners of his mouth. Francis strokes at the wrinkles lightly with the backs of his fingers, smiling when the man frowns deeper and turns his head into his arms and hunches his shoulders in a semi-backbend. The shoulders relax with a sigh; Francis rubs the one nearest him with his hand, pushing at the tense muscles across his back and hugging the man to him. He gets up on his elbows and gives a sleepy grin.

“Morning, love. . .”

Morning is strangely dark. It’s all dark. Francis can’t see his own hand in front of his face; he can’t feel it when he’s sure he’s touching his chin. Turning his head does nothing. There is nothing to see, nothing to feel. . .

Something to hear. Somewhere, someone is crying.

Behind him, there’s a light. The blackness is grey, then white.

“Francis, don’t you dare leave me!”

But he’s already gone.


End file.
